A Silence So Loud
by xElementFivex
Summary: Prompto loses more than he expects at the hands of Ardyn.
1. Chapter 1

He thinks it can't get much worse; after all it has been the worst few days of his life. He remembers the crazed look in Noct's eyes as he had chased him through the train, remembers the brief moment of confusion as he tumbled down from the rooftop. He even has flashes of memory of the trip to the fort, tied and gagged and bleeding on the floor of an Imperial airship. He really thinks it can't get worse.

He's wrong.

Ardyn is back for another chat and Prompto can't decide which one he hates more, the hours upon hours of bored silence or the moments in between where Ardyn comes to talk to- _at-_ him. Prompto's not sure what he's supposed to do during these exchanges; there's a cut above his eye that he earned for talking too much and a split in his lip for talking too little.

Ardyn says something; Prompto's not quite sure what, he's started to tune the chancellor out at this point. The man is still talking and Prompto's smiling a little, even though it hurts his lip where it's split, because he truly believes that Noctis and Ignis and Gladio must already be on their way for him.

Maybe Ardyn's had a particularly bad day or maybe something Prompto's said or didn't say has touched a nerve. The slight smile on the face of his prisoner seems to have kindled a rage in the chancellor. Prompto flinches as the blows rain down, but thinks really it's more of the same and he's already gotten so good at disassociating from the pain. Then he's hit _hard_ across the throat.

Prompto knows something is wrong- really, terribly wrong- the second it happens. There's an agonizing, grating, tearing feeling and he's gasping for breath. His throat has clamped down on itself and he continues to try to force air into his lungs, chest straining with the effort. Ardyn must realize that's he's gone farther than he meant to because the man mutters something and hurries out of the room, the iron gate clanging shut behind him. Prompto barely notices. His entire world has narrowed down to the pain in his throat and the rush in his head from lack of oxygen.

Minutes that feel like an eternity pass before Prompto is finally able to pull in enough air to calm his panicked brain. The pain is still there and he's making this awful, wheezing, guttural sound as he breathes, but at least he's not dying. His hands twitch in an attempt to massage his throat but they're still bound up above his head where Ardyn put them. He concentrates on breathing. He hopes they rescue him soon.

* * *

They finally come after hours. It could have been days, Prompto's not sure and he's lost his only method of time-keeping. Ardyn hasn't come back since the incident.

Gladio works to release him from the metal contraption and he drops to the floor, hands going immediately to his injured throat. Breathing is still too hard and his probing fingers produce new waves of pain. Noctis is talking to him, trying to make sure he's okay, and Prompto wants to say something back, wants to say how happy he is they came for him, but he can't. He can only lay on the cold, cement floor and gasp and thank whatever gods exist in his head that it's finally over.

* * *

They're back in the Regalia and Prompto never thought he'd be so happy to see a car in his life. Gladio is driving, seat pushed back all the way to accommodate his bulk, because Ignis can't anymore and Noctis refuses to take his eyes off of his friend. Prompto is stretched out across the back seat, head in Noct's lap and face pressed into Noct's stomach. Noctis is running his fingers through Prompto's hair and murmuring comforting nothings and reassurances. Prompto thinks he might be whimpering, but there's no sound and he's just so tired, so he's not sure.

* * *

The fight over motel rooms is nearly a knock-down, drag-out. Noctis still balks at the idea of letting Prompto out of his sight and he and Ignis argue for several terse moments before Gladio steps in to break it up. Ignis wins, because even blind, he is still the best caretaker that they have. Prompto is too worn out care either way but he cooperates when Ignis leads him to the bed and helps him undress.

He sleeps and his dreams are endless, dark hallways. He screams but no one can hear him.

* * *

Noctis approaches his friend tentatively, potion in hand. Prompto waves it away. It would be his eighth in just three days. The cuts and bruises have all receded under healing magic and all he's left with are shiny pink scars and the memory of pain. His breathing has eased as much as it's going to; it's still not one hundred percent but he can get by reasonably well. The only thing that hasn't come back is his voice.

Noctis screws up his face and looks like he's going to try to foist the potion on him again. Prompto wants to comfort his friend, but he can't so instead he lays down and faces the wall, until he hears the click of the door shutting.

* * *

It isn't until two days later when Gladio remarks that they're running low on gil and suggests a local hunt that Prompto perks up again. Physically he's fine now, and while he's not getting much sleep, he feels more than up to a hunt. Besides, he's dying to get out into the fresh air, out from under Noct's worried stare and Ignis' constant, watchful eye.

He sees the look that passes between Gladio and Ignis when Prompto indicates that he's going on the hunt with them. Gladio starts to say something but trails off as Prompto pulls out his gun and begins to load ammunition into the clip, moving in a tense, precise way that halts any argument.

Their prey is a pack of couerls that have taken up residence in a nearby canyon. And now Prompto is a little nervous, because they've had problems with couerls in the past, but he smiles and gives the guys a thumbs-up because he's still worried they're going to try to send him back to the motel. Then it starts and he's too caught up in the frantic sweep of energy to be nervous anymore.

The familiar sounds of battle wash over him and he relaxes into it, feeling more like himself than he has since the train. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Gladio rush past, swinging his broadsword in a great arc, while Ignis hurls tiny balls of lightning that Noct has prepared. Noctis is seemingly everywhere at once, disappearing and appearing again with a whoosh and a flare of blue light as his blade sinks into couerl flesh.

Prompto is too confident and it's going too well, delivering devastating hits from his circular saw, when something huge knocks him flat onto his back. His circular saw flies out of arm's reach and his chest hurts as the couerls crouches down on it. The monster starts to sink its claws into his skin and warm saliva drips from his bared fangs into Prompto's face. He reaches blindly for his gun, bringing it up between his face and the couerl's and depressing the trigger.

It's jammed. He tries the trigger again and again, but the gun clicks each time, refusing to fire. He tries to scream, but there's no sound, and he suddenly realizes what a hindrance that is in battle. He throws his head to the side and sees his friends, still engaged with the other couerls. He can't call for help. But he's not ready to die, not here on the ground because of some oversized cat, not when he's already survived all that Ardyn and the empire could throw at him.

He does the next best thing and tightens his grip on the butt of the gun, slamming it into the couerl's face with every last ounce of strength he possesses. He feels the monster's teeth tearing furrows in the skin of his hand as the creature springs back, off his chest. He's relieved beyond words to see Gladio rush in from the side. A quick flash of steel and a dull thud and the couerl drops to the ground, dead. And just like that the battle is over and the only sound left their hard breathing and the sharp sound of weapons disappearing back into the ether.

Prompto closes his eyes and breathes as deeply as he can, trying to gather his wits about him quickly. He pulls himself into a sitting position and inspects himself. There's a row of holes in his shirt and some blood soaking through and there's even more blood dripping down his right hand from the couerl's teeth but he's alive and it's definitely not the worst he's had.

He grits his teeth and fends off the helping hands of Noctis and Ignis in favor of pushing himself off the ground. Noctis continues to try and fret in that overly-concerned way of his, but Prompto wants none of it, so he turns and starts walking back to the car by himself.

* * *

Prompto holds himself together through sheer willpower on the drive back to the motel. Once there, he practically slams the door in his friend's faces before dropping facedown onto his bed. He's still bloody and he's probably ruining the sheets, but he can't bring himself to care. He's never felt so helpless, not when his home was destroyed and his best friend's world shattered and all he could do was stand there and watch, not when he was tied and strung up by Ardyn, not when Noctis was lying unconscious in Altissia and none of them knew whether he would wake up again or not.

Because not only does he feel helpless; he feels like a detriment. He's an anchor, dragging his friends down and he can't stand the thought because the last thing any of them needs right now is something else to worry about. He can't keep going in to battle if he's only going to make things harder on the others.

Tears leak out from under his closed eyelids and for the first time in a long time, he lets them. The door opens softly and he hears someone step lightly up to the bed. Prompto opens his eyes, ready to wipe his face and smile at Noctis and pretend everything's alright again.

But to his surprise, it's Ignis above him, with a look of such sorrowful empathy on his face that Prompto feels more tears course down his cheeks. Ignis sits down on the bed, his back warm against Prompto's and reaches for his hand. Prompto grabs hold and laces their fingers together and the unspoken _'I know how it feels'_ hangs in the air between them.

They stay like that until Prompto has cried himself out and Gladio's knocking on the door, telling them to get ready for dinner. And as their hands unclasp, Prompto looks at Ignis and his scars and touches his own throat and hopes that somehow, by the end of all this, they will have gained more from the empire than they've lost.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompto feels the magic long before he sees it. The bright ball of light whistles past his right ear, making the small hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand up as its strange energy crackles around him. The wave of heat as the spell hits buffets his hair back and temporarily lights up his surroundings. Beyond a cursory glance, he doesn't bother to check whether or not Ignis had actually hit his target; Ignis never missed.

Instead, he turns his attention to the two- _no, three_ \- sabertusks still before him. The one on the right, already bleeding where Prompto had nicked it earlier, lunges at him. Prompto has a quick glimpse of the gaping jaws, ringed with vicious, yellowy teeth, before he drops to the ground, whipping his pistols around to shoot at the creature's soft underbelly as it soars over him. His aim is perfect, and the monster drops like a stone, dead.

His gratification with a job well done lasts only a second before one of the other two left slams into his right shoulder and- _stupid, stupid, never turn your back in a fight_ \- a white-hot stab of agony ricochets through him. The gun drops his hand, right arm now dangling uselessly at his side. Before it even hits the ground, Prompto is already twisting his body around, left arm swinging up and out. The pistol clutched in his left hand connects with a satisfying crunch and the creature drops next to the first.

Two quick shots cut down the third beast as Prompto glances around for Ignis. In the ambient light from the lightning spell, he spots him. Ignis is standing relatively still, looking over his own pile of slain creatures. Apart from cut on his forehead that's dripping slowly down his cheek, he seems unhurt.

Satisfied that there is nothing else requiring his immediate attention, Prompto concentrates all his efforts on pulling his own aching body to a standing position. Another spasm of pain racks him and he groans silently. He grips his injured shoulder with his good hand, probing it for a clue to what's wrong. And finally- _ah, dislocated._

The remnants of a tall tree are off to his right. At some point it must have been hit by lightning, cooking the inside until it splintered and cracked, the limbs dropping off to the ground below. What's left of the trunk is still sturdy though, and he goes to it, pushing his back firmly up against the scorched, rough bark. Prompto grits his teeth, squares up his back, pushes hard against his shoulder and- _ow, ow, ow_ \- pops it back into place. His breath hisses out between clenched teeth. His shoulder is a mess of stinging, smarting nerves, but at least it no longer burns so badly.

That taken care of, he goes to Ignis, who has finished his own post-battle assessment and is already digging through his pack for medical supplies. Prompto takes the gauze and antiseptic from him gently and starts to attend to the cut on Ignis' face. He wipes up the blood that has spilled down over his cheekbones and cleaned out the wound. It's not deep, which is good. They had long since run through the bulk of their healing magic.

He's aware, as he works, of Ignis' gaze from beneath the dark glasses. Even blind, Ignis still has the uncanny ability to look right through him. The loss of his eyesight has done nothing to temper the sharpness of his gaze.

"Are we all right?"

Prompto pulls back the gauze, pleased that the bleeding has already stopped. The light from the spell has faded completely, not that it matters. Prompto's night vision was excellent.

He squeezed Ignis' shoulder in response to the question- _yes, let's go_ \- and the two of them begin the long hike back to their camp.

It's a rather more permanent camp than the ones they used to have. It's still rough in a lot of ways, but over the years he and Ignis have made it- if not comfortable, at least livable. When they reach the camp, Prompto busies himself lighting the ring of warding fires that surrounds their humble dwellings. The old campgrounds aren't as powerfully guarded as they used to be, and they've found that the fires help keep the daemons at bay. It's better than nothing at least, and the ability to avoid daemons is worth it's weight in gold in a world that's always dark.

Prompto's not sure where exactly they are. He knows they're somewhere in Duscae for sure, and if he goes south and east long enough he'd probably hit Galdin Quay eventually. It's hard to be certain; a lot of the old roads are broken down from disuse, the familiar landmarks lost. State of the road aside, it would do them no good to search for it. Going towards what's left of civilization means people, and too many people in one place to attract the daemons is a death sentence these days.

They're better off out here, surviving; fighting where they can and running where they can't.

They're good at fighting, he and Ignis. Excellent, even. They work together like a single unit, despite Ignis' blindness and Prompto's silence. Or perhaps because of it. Years of practice have made them into a deadly weapon: forged in the fires of countless battles and tempered by their long time together on the run.

Prompto dusts off his hands as the last fire flickers to life. He turns to watch Ignis, who's sitting on one of their well-used chairs beside the cooking fire at the center of camp. Ignis' deft hands are digging through their packs, methodically taking inventory of their remaining spells. He doesn't turn his head or stop his works as he calls out to Prompto.

"At least we're not going through them as fast anymore, now that Gladio and his rather awful aim have left for Lestallum."

Prompto inhales loudly in what passes for a laugh as he joins Ignis by the fire. It's nice, in a way. Ignis talks more now then he ever used to, cracks more jokes; maybe it's to make up for the silence. Prompto's grateful for it.

"We're not dangerously low yet, which is good. We can't replenish our supply, not without-" he pauses. "We'll make do."

Prompto winces like he's been struck. He misses Noctis all the time. The pain's not sharp anymore, not like it used to be, when he would wake up gasping with the hurt of it all. It's still there though; a deep, throbbing ache, like a long-ago broken bone that never healed quite right.

Ignis cocks his head questioningly at Prompto, concern written on his features, and holds a hand out to him. Prompto grabs it, his own fingers forming the signs, pressing them into Ignis' palm. _Don't worry, I'm fine._ And then, because he's been learning new words lately, presses an overly-wrought and complicated sentence into Ignis' hand, using all the most pointlessly complicated words he knows.

Ignis, who's been learning sign language by proxy, laughs. It's a nice sound, comforting, and Prompto grasps his fingers tightly for a second. Both of their hands are rough and calloused from outdoor life, storybooks written in bruises and scars.

They both settle in after that, Ignis to his cooking and Prompto to the battered book of sign language he pulls from the tent. They'd picked it up a long time ago, after a supply run to some tiny, abandoned town where all of the inhabitants had fled to the bright lights and relative safety of Lestallum.

He probably should've started learning far sooner, but back then- _before_ \- he hadn't had the time. There was always the plan, the end goal that they were chasing. And then after- that first, horrible night when Gladio had gone off somewhere to rage at the sky and Ignis had held Prompto tight across the shoulders while he shook and let out silent sobs. He had grabbed Ignis' hands so hard that he surely must have left bruises, fingers digging into flesh, just trying to impress all his emotion- the fear, the pain, the sudden, horrible loss of Noctis- into a single, desperate action.

And because Ignis was Ignis, he'd understood instantly. They had all cried that night.

After about an hour, he folded the book back up and placed it back in their tent. Between the fight earlier in the day, and the stiffness in his shoulder, and the strain of learning a new language, he was exhausted. He contemplates just going to sleep for a second, but instead picks up his camera, snapping a few pictures.

He flips through them idly, deleting almost all of them without thinking. He's limited by the space on his memory card and it's not like he can buy another one; there's none to be bought anymore. All remaining production work has gone into fabricating things like weapons and flashlights; the things people need to survive. Besides, everything is dark all the time now, so the pictures aren't great to begin with. There's only so many views of this nightmare landscape Prompto can take before it gets boring.

One he keeps, however. It's Ignis, wholly absorbed in his cooking, the firelight and shadows making sharp peaks and dark valleys on his face. It's a beautiful picture, he tells himself as he hits the save button. And when- _if_ \- this is all over, whether he makes it or not, he wants some sort of record, something to show that there was still good in the world.

He accepts the food Ignis hands him with a smile. Ignis, who can't see but does seem to have a preternatural ability to detect these things, smiles back. The meal isn't much; they're mostly living on scraps these days. Turns out, it's surprisingly hard to grow things without sunlight. They've both lost weight: on Ignis it's sharpened his cheekbones into something beautiful and dangerous, but on Prompto it's just made him look skinny and sick.

Prompto frowns through the rest of the meal, lost in thought. Ignis has the first- well, calling it a 'watch' doesn't really work, does it- but regardless, his sharp ears have never missed a threat to their camp.

Prompto settles in and tries to go to sleep. He's not sure what time it is, hasn't been really sure since the sun went out. Neither of them are. They measure time by hunger and patrols, with bits of sleep here and there, enough to keep them going. They've adjusted, thank the Gods. Others weren't so lucky: Prompto's heard of them, poor souls who were unable to cope with the new cycles, bodies giving up on them with the lack of food and irregular sleep cycles.

The walls come alive around him, the crystal glowing red and pulsating with a sickly light. There's a humming sound that starts soft, but soon grows too loud to bear. He tries to move his hands to cover his ears, but he can't. _Why can't he move his hands?_

And now the sound is high pitched, keening and screeching and worming it's way into his ear, boring into his brain and in the disgusting scarlet glow he catches sight of a body trapped in the transparent wall. It's Noctis. And next to him are Ignis and Gladio, Iris and Aranea, Cindy and Lunafreya. Everyone he's ever known or loved or cared about. Prompto reaches desperately for them but his hands are still stuck and to his horror, he finally sees that they're encased in the crystal of the wall. The red stone is pooling like honey, clinging to his arms, climbing higher, threatening to engulf him.

He screams, but the sound in scratchy and awkward, coming in fits and bursts and – _oh._

He's awake. There's no crystal, no unbearable noise, no eyes staring at him. It's just the fire-lit camp with the regular, distant sounds of animals somewhere far off past the warding fires. Ignis is lowering the clunky radiophone from his ear- and that must have been it, his sleep-addled brain had turned to squawking of the radiophone into the scream of his dream.

His eyes are damp. He wipes them quickly before the tears can pool and spill down his cheeks. His actions are furtive, not that it matters: he knows Ignis can't see him.

Ignis sets the radiophone heavily at his side. It's large and awkward and only ever works about half the time, but it's better than nothing. Their old cell phones are next to useless out with here no electricity.

"Prompto."

Ignis' voice is soft with concern. Prompto's fingers twitch involuntarily around his eyes, feeling for any remnant of moisture. Of course, how stupid to have assumed Ignis wouldn't know; Ignis always knew.

"Prompto, there's something- well, the line wasn't very clear, but it sounds like it's something big."

There was something dangerous in Ignis' voice and it took him a minute to identify it.

 _Hope._

But Prompto had had hope the last time, and the time before that, and the time before that as well. And each of those had turned out to be nothing and each time it had hurt a little bit more. Maybe this time they shouldn't even bother, in fact it would probably be best if they didn't and besides- _No!_

He wanted someone to hit him, to punish him for even thinking it. How could they ever stop looking for Noctis? How could they not follow up on every lead, no matter how small. No matter how little chance there was. The guilt was terrible.

He grabbed Ignis' hands in both of his. _Do you think?_

"I'll reserve my judgement. But Gladio did sound- different, I suppose. Excited."

 _Lestallum?_ Prompto signed, and Ignis shook his head.

"Hammerhead."

And that in itself was strange; they had always met in Lestallum before to investigate these types of things. For a moment, just a single breath's worth of time, Prompto allows himself to hope, before squeezing Ignis' hands tightly. He took a deep, steadying breath and finally, when his head was clear, pressed one more set of words into Ignis' palms.

 _Let's go._


End file.
